


Be Who You Want To Be / Be Proud

by untildvsk



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Eddie Kaspbrak Has Anxiety, Eddie's More So In Denial, Filipino Richie Tozier, Insecurity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Pennywise/Pennywise Not Mentioned, Not Beta Read, Richie Tozier Has ADHD, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-20 19:16:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21061802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untildvsk/pseuds/untildvsk
Summary: He sighs, feeling very defeated, like it’s his little self versus the entire big, wide world; increasingly frustrated with Derry, with Richie, his mother, and most of all, most suffocatingly, –his own self. He burrows deeper into the stiff sheets, praying sleep comes quick.“Don’t call me Eds.”





	Be Who You Want To Be / Be Proud

**Author's Note:**

> This is messy and virtually plot-less. 2,500 words of blatant self-projection. But, over the years, I've started and scrapped dozens of works for this fandom. They're so dear to me; my passion and inspiration for these two and this universe is unlike any I've experienced. I was determined to edit this into something somewhat coherent and post it, no matter how terrible it may be!

Though it’s well into Autumn now; or, as it should more appropriately be called, fall; as the colors and the crispness and festivities have long past, and everything feels cold and dead; he’s yet to break out of his summer routine. Instead of his mother’s reinforced early bedtime, he’s stuck smuggling Richie in and out of his bedroom window. Anything past a mandatory ‘family’ supper and a quick shower– you can forget about it. Sacrificing homework, studying, every shred of his once immaculate organization, _ alone time _; his new daily normal. 

He has teased, of course—

_ (“What’s it gunna take to get rid of you, huh? Fucking surgery?”) _

_ (“Oh, baby– death’s your only hope!”, he kissed his cheek.) _

—He takes every opportunity presented to tease Richie. But really, he’s not sure he’d be able to fall asleep without the odd comfort of the other’s incessant yapping.

Even the fifteen minutes of solitary he’s got in the shower, he finds himself rushing to have a precious extra minute or two with the other boy. But it was an eager panic. The past month or so– they’re freshman now– things have shifted. Some nights, nights like these, he constantly feels on the verge of a pointless, _ he knows _ , anxiety attack. A maddening unease no pill, no many pumps from his aspirator, not even Richie’s special brand of comfort, could ease. It’s not that he’d rather be alone. He tells himself he doesn’t know _ what _ he wants, but it’s a lie. He’s just not sure how to articulate it. He can’t make much sense of it. 

He yearns to live, but simultaneously cease to exist. He wants freedom, but it’s a ridiculous, unattainable and unrealistic type. It’s not just his mom. If he really wanted, with a little more willpower and reason and probably a lot of therapy, he could _ choose _ to unlearn her suffocation. But– his mind, his _ body _..

Up until recently, he’s always possessed an unapologetic confidence anyone, losers and otherwise alike, couldn’t help but be envious of. It’s almost odd, considering his mother’s often nasty tactics of manipulation (“_ Be careful playing with those boys. They’re so much bigger and stronger– I worry. You know how I worry, _ Eddie-bear _ .” She’d look him up and down, wearing an uneasy expression that does a weird thing to his stomach. “I can’t help but worry.” _ ) and his, well, _ loser status _ . They were all picked on for their looks, considering it’s the easiest, requires the least effort and creativity– which doesn’t happen to be on the Bowers gang’s limited list of strong suits _ . _ “Girly boy”, “poofter”, “fairy”, and his personal favorite, the _ f-slur _ ; he’s heard them all a million times before. Over the years, he’s grown used to them. He thought, maybe he was even _ coming to terms _ with them. How he would _ love _ to embrace them, reclaim them as his own. He aches for that control. The Losers always tell him how brave he is– but he’s not _ fearless _. 

He’s undeniably small for his age– fourteen and barely five-foot, a hundred pounds– and he always has been. He doesn’t need Bowers to remind him of that. But, as he meets his own wide eyes in the bathroom’s foggy full-length mirror, as they rake up and down his soppy body, vacant, he’s almost unsettled by the sheer– what can only be described as _ daintiness _– he sees.

His curls lay wild on one side, a glob of toothpaste leftover on the corner of his downturned lips. He fills his shaky palms with ice-cold tap water and drenches his freckled cheeks. His shoulders are shaking now, _ harshly _, but he’s unable to bring himself to pull his glare away from his own pathetic frame. The bitter chill nips at his nose and lips and cheeks, blushing them a delicate pink.

A rather high-pitched whine escapes him, and he remembers suddenly,_ Richie’s out there; he’s waiting for me _ . He says it in an attempt to calm himself, and for second, it almost does. _ But you’re a boy _ , he thinks _ . You’re almost a man. Men don’t cry and _ bitch _ like this; and men don’t need their best friends to _ cuddle _ their worries away. _

He forces a smile; his cheeks feel like they’re about to crack. He doesn’t look crazy– he wishes he did– wishes he had the blissful ignorance of total batshit insanity. Instead, to quote Ben, he thinks he looks kind of _ poetic _– like the stock female love interests in all those cheesy movies his mom watches. All he’s missing is the tear-streaked mascara.

He wouldn’t say he’s _insecure_. He’s never thought himself _ugly_ as a whole, and there aren’t really any particular little things that bug him, either; like Ben with his belly, or Stanley and his ‘_Jew nose’_. Objectively speaking, with no consideration of the town’s gossip; the possibility that Sonia Kaspbrak’s beloved only son may be a– shock horror– _homosexual_; he is, by definition, rather pretty. And, _theeere it is_! Pretty. Not handsome. Not even boyishly attractive. He’s frail and small_– _and he’s _pretty_. And whether or not he is indeed a _faggot_ doesn’t make much all that much of a difference– because no many girls and fucks and _lies_ could chisel his cheekbones and square out his shoulders. 

He hears a gruff, distinct sigh from the room over and a voice– not his own this time– maybe it’s his mother’s, maybe it’s Richie’s– he’s too busy scrambling to change and _go go go go_ (_where’s my inhaler?_) to hear– taunts him: 

_ “No matter how hard you try, Eds. You can’t escape the _ truth _ .” _

—

Over the past few years, Richie’s involuntarily consumed a truly disgraceful amount of soap operas, cheesy Hallmark dramedies– watered down softcore porn for all the dried up Christian mommies. Though Mrs. K, without fail, is out cold and snoring by nine; she insists on leaving the TV’s volume on full blast. And it doesn’t help that the walls are annoyingly thin. It’s kind of sad when a kid with such a vicious case of ADHD would rather be left alone and unoccupied. But _ holy shit _ , he _ cherishes _the nights where he has the luxury of silence. He’d gladly take picking the chipping paint from Eddie’s windowsill; somehow, a much less tortuous route to insanity.

He rants to him about this nightly; though, he’s grown used to it, and it hardly even bothers him anymore. He just– talks a lot around Eddie. It’s rarely worth saying. But, no matter how mundane or nonsensical; Eddie’s big on reactions. With every fresh quip, (“_ I bet your mom watches that show because the doctor dude with the big dick reminds her of me.”) _ , he’s met with a sigh and/or eye roll, with that underlying hint of fondness he thrives on. Something ( _ many things– everything _ ) about the boy renders his already weak self-control, utterly _ useless _. 

Whether it’s the TV’s fault, or he’s just oblivious; he doesn’t notice Eddie until he’s standing, literally, directly over him. He peers down, brows furrowed, unconsciously crinkling his nose. His still slightly damp curls fall into his eyes. Richie thinks, _ how vulnerable and beautiful. You’re so beautiful. I wish I could tell you that; I wish I could lean a few inches forward and maybe you’d get the message; but just telling you, watching you blush and giggle and maybe (probably) scold me– that’d be enough _ . But he knows, pinching his cheeks and calling him cute ( _ cute, cute, cute! _ ) is one thing, but _ worshiping _ his beauty while he can feel his breath on his own lips, is a whole different, terrifying territory. 

He forces the stoney-est expression manageable, and he takes a single finger and taps it to the tip of his nose. And– there it is– the eyeroll. For a moment, his walls fall and a hearty laugh escapes his throat. He goes to playfully bite it, but Richie’s too quick, laughing wildly, uncontrollably. All huffy, he leaps to his reserved spot in bed, pulling the comforter to his chin. Richie’s absolutely losing it still, but he keeps gentle as he urges the smaller boy’s head up to pull him closer. For a moment, a faint, fond smile is present on Eddie’s lips and he welcomes his touch. But, as they both seem to simultaneously realize, –they’re virtually cuddling now. If any poor soul were to stumble upon them, with their blushed cheeks, heartbeats literally audible, a couple questions would surely arise. 

He almost scoffs to himself, _and when have you ever given a fuck?_ _You’re a loser, for Christ’s sake– and goddamn proud of it. Practically your entire existence is a huge-ass middle finger to what ‘should and shouldn’t be’. _But– Eddie stiffens still; and he wonders, an anxious sickness pooling in his stomach: Is it because I’m a boy? Or is it _me_?

He releases his grip, and Eddie makes quick to inch away, cramming as far as he possibly can into the corner. And he’s been touchy as of late, but there’s _ got to be _ something else up. Richie’s instincts urge him to do what he does best– make light of things, and if he’s lucky, get a giggle or two out of the boy– but he feels it, oddly, too _ risky _. His shaky fingers involuntarily begin to fidget; a nervous product of his ADHD; one that drives Eddie especially nuts. In the past, often, he’d take hold of both hands in his one, smoothing his thumb in a soothing, but adequately distracting manor. He just sighs. Not fondly, either; but in a tone that suddenly makes Richie feel very insecure– like a nuisance. He stretches his little arms to the nightstand, careful not to dare make contact with the other boy. He tosses Richie a hair-tie, last from the pack. 

Over the summer, after a glorious day of cliff-diving and swimming and digging around in the Barrens; vanilla soft serve for dinner, late-night popcorn and a sticky soda split over seven; Maggie Tozier was left with no choice but to take scissors to her son’s foot and a half of impossibly matted, sugary clumps of hair. Despite this, he didn’t flake that night– he wouldn’t– and if he ever does, it’ll be safe to assume that he’s either dead or out cold, tied up in Bower’s basement, or something equally as dire. He still showed, just an hour or so late, and with bloodshot eyes, (poorly) disguised by a too-wide smile.

Most kids– thirteen, a particularly egocentric age, inherently– probably would’ve just shrugged it off, made an awkward attempt at unintentionally hurtful humor– if they’d even noticed in the first place. But, Eddie’s _ Eddie _ : generally neurotic in nature– that, even amplified when concerning those he loves; and, though he swears he’ll never admit it, he does love Richie a _ fuckton _.

He shoved the other boy onto the bed in a brief, worry-induced annoyance and grabbed a weak pair of sewing scissors from his freshly-retired fanny pack. Richie argued for a beat. Eddie, _ “I can’t fuck it up any worse than it already it is.” _ He flashed a smile, sweet and bright, with an undeniable hint of cockiness, knowing the power he has over the other boy. He combed his fingers through Richie’s hair and he melted, surrendering to the euphoric rush of affection Eddie so simply evokes.

He’s careful to keep it relatively long; not only on Richie’s request, but for his own selfish preferences, too. He simply evens it out best he could; and by the time he’s finished, it’s sleek and just past his shoulders and a vast, _ vast _ improvement. Richie, _ literally _, drops to his knees and praises him in a ridiculous dramatic tone as he squirms and blushes. 

That next morning, he woke late and scrambled to beat Sonia’s ungodly 8AM alarm. (Though, this _ is _ preferable over her school days’ 6:30, made so she could closely monitor Eddie’s ten-foot trek to the bus stop.) He gracelessly leapt out the window in a half-asleep stupor, insisting on shouting his goodbyes.

_ (“Until next time, my love! My heart will mourn your absence– ‘til we meet again!”) _

He waited for it to fade from earshot and biked to Keene’s and bought them out of hair-ties; probably twenty packs, 50-count each. Stuffed them away, bashful. But, of course, once Richie caught wind of the things, he made a point to fuss over them as much, and as _ obnoxiously _ as possible. Eddie may’ve just bought them as a precaution, but they quickly became an everyday staple; ponytails, messy buns, the occasional _ braid à la Beverly _ . He probably wouldn’t have– he likes the loose cut perfectly fine– but the ties remind him of Eddie ( _ Eds~ my love! _) and the adorable gesture.

Now, he feels stupidly bitter towards the little thing strangling his wrist. He peers to the little lump lying beside him, not very successfully feigning sleep; eyes screwed shut, but underneath moving almost frantically, as if his own thoughts are propelling him into a panic. His breathing’s shallow, but too frequent. If things weren’t so fucking _ weird _ right now, he’d rub his back, maybe. And he would open his eyes, _ “What the hell are you doing, dummy?” _ , breathy, with _ that smile _. 

_ I’d snip every bit of it off if it meant you’d just _ fucking _ talk to me again. _

He yearns to be yelled at; chastised, no holding back, in Eddie’s signature little way; unable to contain his incredulousness of whatever stupid stunt he’s impulsively pulled. Nobody– not Beverly or Stan, nor his mom or dad, or his sister– is so easily, so quickly set off by the slightest of his antics. If anyone dared to comment on this, Eddie would flush and claim it’s just his temper, “_ You’re just extra special fucking annoying _ .” But– the truth hung thick and obvious and _ adorable _ in the air.

“I love you, Eds.” He says. Not as a nostalgia-induced confession or sappy declaration. They’d been exchanging it rather casually for years– all seven of them. The two specifically, since the very first day they met; six years old, Kindergarten. He can recall Sonia’s face, as a dirty, hyper, foul-mouthed, little fillipino boy rather loudly professed his love for her son in front of dozens of kids and their Christian parents– almost as vividly as he could Eddie’s. He was blushing, most likely due to his mother’s scandalized sputtering. As she dug her fat, pointy fingers into his arm and made to drag him away, he requited, meekly, in a quick whisper, “_Love you, too._” It’s hard to forget the nauseating flip-floppy thing his heart did in response that day– as it was the first of many.

He’s silent for a good few beats, but he inhales and white-knuckles the sheets and Richie _ knows _he heard him. He can sense Richie’s stare, and his doe-eyes somewhat begrudgingly flutter open. He presses his mouth into a thin line, feigning annoyance; trying to force the presence of their once natural light-hearted bickering; but his eyes read sad.

He sighs, feeling very defeated, like it’s his little self versus the entire big, wide world; increasingly frustrated with Derry, with Richie, his mother, and most of all, most _ suffocatingly _, –his own self. He burrows deeper into the stiff sheets, praying sleep comes quick.

“Don’t call me Eds.”

**Author's Note:**

> Despite the quality, feedback would be much appreciated :)


End file.
